


bitter

by Vultarre



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: ???? What are tags even, Angst, M/M, Silmarillion - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-22
Updated: 2014-11-22
Packaged: 2018-02-26 13:30:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2653745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vultarre/pseuds/Vultarre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You once loved this…this monster. This foul creature which dwells to destroy and breathes fiery destruction. The steady ache still lingers, the ache of betrayal that makes you heave and writhe with agony, not nearly half as painful as the burn in your chest that still remains from this… festered love. Such a sensation dissipated into nothingness the moment he crafted the wretched object—it was in that moment, you knew. You knew. </p><p>- - - - </p><p>Lazily written Sauron/Celebrimbor, mainly just sad stuff with a touch of violence. I dunno, based off some ideas a friend and I had floating around. Kinda AU, kinda not. @__@</p>
            </blockquote>





	bitter

Celebrimbor raised a slightly trembling hand to his lip, touching the split surface as he wiped blood from it. His brows curved downward as he eyed the red droplets that now clung to his fingers, lifting his gaze upward to meet that of Sauron’s. The dark sorcerer was watching intently, his gaze fluidly moving with every slight movement Celebrimbor made, when he took one step backward, Sauron took one closer. Until he found himself being pulled forward into a dangerous embrace, his entire body remaining rigid against the sharp, angular armour and robes of Sauron’s chest. The silver-hand eventually let his body sag; he had no will power to move. To escape the other’s grip. He could feel Sauron’s satisfied gaze warming the room; and he glared coldly into the shadow behind him. Though his attention was briefly directed to the sorcerer’s hand—more prominently, the golden ring that lay around one finger, a gleaming beacon in the bleakness of the shadowed room. His mind pieced together the motives, and he swallowed thickly—almost leaping from his skin as a cold, sharp metal gauntlet stroked it’s way down his back in a form of sick, possessive comfort. 

“May I end this.” He murmured nearly inaudibly, and he felt Sauron’s gaze turn to him for a few moments—pondering his words before becoming uncaring and returning to his mock-affection. Celebrimbor uttered a few words of forgiveness to Valar and Eru, one hand lurching forward to clasp the ring and yank—but he had mere moments before the sorcerer’s frighteningly precise reaction rate kicked in, making the tall figure twist and clasp his cold, metal-clad fingers around the wrist of Celebrimbor’s arm; twisting it unnaturally to the side until it cracked and the elf-smith gave an agonised cry— dropping the ring almost as quickly as he had touched it. Sauron swiftly dived to catch it, his gaze turning cold and furious as he watched Celebrimbor crawl backwards; clutching at his now partially-limp arm, which hung at an awkward angle. 

“You treacherous  _fool!_ ” Came the harsh, resonant words. And the tall, dark figure wasted no time in pacing forward and lifting the elf upward off of the ground, digging his metal gauntlet’s sharp, curved talons into the soft flesh of Celebrimbor’s throat before tossing him down again; mere seconds passed before his sharp, angular boot dove into the smith’s side; and with the air knocked from him—the silverhand gasped and pressed himself further against the wall. Such torment lasted mere minutes before Sauron turned and vanished through the doors, leaving Celebrimbor coughing up small, sticky globs of blood and saliva. Yet his mind could take no more of the torment, the lies, the false affection—and he screamed. His voice cracked with the sound and he sunk further downward upon his knees, hands clutching feebly at his chest as he struggled to breathe—hot tears seemed to mark streaks down his cheeks, though the tears were not of sadness, but of unfathomable hatred and anger. And he rose to his feet to eye off his workspace. His vision blurred as he shoved it all aside, glass shattering and cutting into his hands, but he cared not. The profanities he screamed and the accusations cut deeper into his mind, and as his throat grew dry from the volume—his mind continued to cave in. 

“How do I dare say I once held affection for you-- You foul, heinous creature. All you give are lies and false hope—Why is it that you leave me here—“ He grasped fistfuls of his hair, tugging it in frustration as he kicked aside a stool, ignoring the agony in his fractured arm as he attempted to move it. “Why do you torment me? What do you want—I have given you all! I gave you everything and you took it  _all!_  I am left with nothing—I am nothing! Yet I was once  _something!_  Why can you not leave me here to die?!” He fell onto his knees again, horrendous sobs wracking his chest and draining his energy, “Why do you not just let me die? I have given you everything.” He dips his head as he tries to control his breathing, hair falling across his face. He seemingly does not notice the return of the cruel figure, whom takes in the sight of the broken room with little more than a blink.

And then the arms return, no longer adorned in the ferocious armour that had been there, now fine silk robes had taken it’s place. Celebrimbor struggled against the other’s grip, growling words of judgement and cold accusations as he tried to push Sauron away, “You are not him! You are not--" His words fell silent, and he took a few moments to gather is thoughts before growling again; "Let me be.“ But the arms do not move, they do not let him move. And he is left to sob dryly and press his face against the other’s chest--not an act of weakness, but an act of perpetual  _defeat._ The silversmith's hands occasionally pound against the other’s shoulders; eventually just clasping fistfuls of the robes there, sagging against the other as exhaustion and ever constant weariness take hold him, his eyes are red from the disgusting tears of hate—his face blood soaked, but he does not move. Listening feebly as the other whispers more lies to him, lies of his supposed protection—promises,  _more broken promises_.

“And yet, I had thought I had once loved you.” Came the rasped, anguished words from Celebrimbor, spluttered against the fabric before him. He can almost feel Sauron’s smirk, satisfied once more at the state of his former companion. The dark sorcerer relished such words, relished the dependance that the elf now held to him--Conquering Celebrimbor's mind had been a constant goal, and now his lips curved upward in a small, complacent smile, with his eyes bright. Yet there is desolation underlying those eyes, something age old and undying--perhaps even miserable, guarded beneath golden shades of greed and conquest. 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for any mistakes, this was written ridiculously quickly and I fell asleep shortly after. Funnily enough I try not to post my writing, but I liked this one enough. :U


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